


can't lose touch but we can let go

by sternenrotz



Series: broken hearts hurt but they make us strong (queer horror verse) [8]
Category: The Horrors (Band)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Gen, Morning After, Multi, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, faris has his dick out but literally no sexual content happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 21:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4935415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternenrotz/pseuds/sternenrotz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faris has to deal with the aftermath of an orgy for the first time in his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	can't lose touch but we can let go

**Author's Note:**

> titled after "Ms" by alt-j.
> 
> set in late 2005. the usual: Rhys is a trans girl and her chosen name is Dilys, Joe is a trans boy and Josh also presently identifies as such, and Tom and Faris are both cis or at least presently consider themselves as such.

The room is too bright when Faris wakes up. Too bright and too warm and too _unfamiliar_ , before it clicks and he recalls that he didn’t go back to his own flat after rehearsal last night. Maybe that’s one of the reasons why he’s so warm, too, he’s got Dilys tucked under his one arm, Joe underneath the other. They’re holding hands across his chest, too, which is probably one of the more unnecessary displays of affection Faris has ever seen. He turns his head, heavy with the hangover, and finds Tom and Josh huddled together somehow between Joe and the wall.

Then Dilys mumbles something in her sleep and shifts, or at least she tries to. Her skin’s sticky, the same way that the air is sticky, gluing them together. And Faris realises he really needs to piss.

He finds the bathroom easily enough, after shimmying his way out of the bed in the hopes that he won’t stir any of them up. Joe and Dilys have a nice flat, or at least it’s by far not the worst place Faris figures he could have woken up in. He sits down to piss, head too heavy and legs too shaky. After he’s washed his hands, he finds a half-full thing of paracetamols in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror and washes one down with water from the tap. It’s a gradual process, by all means, or maybe that’s just Faris’ brain waking more slowly than the rest of his body.

In any case, he makes his way into the kitchen and puts the kettle on, just enough water for a single cup. He finds the teabags in the cabinet, a box of PG Tips and a box of Yorkshire Tea that’s got a post-it reading _JOSH’S_ in big bold Sharpie letters stuck to it. Faris takes the Yorkshire without hesitating. While he waits for the water to boil, he snoops around the cabinets some more. Faris knows it’s a gross habit, but his stomach is churning with emptiness. All he finds is granola and some boxes of Tesco instant pasta, however. In the end he opens a sealed box of chocolate digestives and takes three, and he really doesn’t feel that bad about it.

Then the tea’s done, so he pours himself a cuppa and drinks it standing up. Again, it’s a gradual thing, because he’s maybe halfway through his mug, a chipped one with a gaudy pattern that strains his eyes, when he realises he should have made tea for the rest of them, too, instead of being selfish and eating Joe and Dilys’ digestives and drinking Josh’s tea all by himself.

Like that, it’s not a gradual thing at all. As soon as he thinks about brewing Josh a cuppa and bringing it to him in bed, the memory of shagging Josh last night comes back crystal clear to his mind. They all shagged each other, technically speaking. A nasty, grimy feeling creeps up into his chest. Faris wouldn’t call it nausea, and he wouldn’t call it panic, but that’s the closest approximation, the place where those two intersect. A subdued version of that sits in his lungs and in the back of his throat and constricts his breathing. He automatically grips his teacup tighter.

By the time Dilys walks into the kitchen in her bra from last night and a pair of loose pyjama bottoms, Faris isn't sure how much time has passed. The tea left in his mug has gone cold, so there’s that.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Dilys says back without turning around from the cabinet where she’s taking out a bunch of teacups.

Her bottoms hang from her hips and bum just-so, and Faris feels _terribledirtyfilthy_ for looking there, although he doesn’t feel he should be looking at her chest, either. He can’t bear to look right at her face. Maybe he should avert his eyes altogether, or maybe he should just stop focussing. Zone back out. Maybe.

“It’s pretty cold in here,” Dilys says when she’s placed four different, but similarly gaudy mugs onto the counter.

Faris can’t miss how her eyes dart downward when she looks at him.

“That’s not funny,” he says back, although he does glance down to his limp dick when he does. Well, given the circumstances, it’s really not funny.

“Wasn’t meant to be.”

Dilys fills the kettle up. Over the rush of water flowing from the faucet, she says, “Just saying it’s kind of weird that you’re standing in my kitchen when the flat’s all cold and the bed is warm.”

Right, Dilys mentioned that last night. Something’s up with the heating but the landlady said she won’t get it fixed for another few days. Something like that. Faris is cold, too, toes numb against the floor tiles and goose pimples on his chest and thighs, aside from the obvious. Again, he chalks up the fact that he didn’t notice earlier to a combination of the hangover and the zoning out.

Faris shrugs. “Didn’t want to put my bare arse on your furniture.”

As soon as he’s said it, he realises how stupid it sounds, and that it doesn’t technically answer the question. But it’s the first answer he can think of that doesn’t involve him freaking out about an orgy over his cup of morning tea.

Dilys laughs at him, an unattractive, snorting laugh, and that makes Faris feel slightly better, somehow. “Just so you’re aware, I’m pretty sure my boyfriend’s naked arse has been on every surface in this room at least once.

Faris says, “Ew,” and means it very genuinely.

“Not like _that_.” Dilys shoots Faris a quick look and that stupid smirk she has, and suddenly Faris feels much less comfortable again.

“Joe’s just, you know… He doesn’t really like wearing clothes.”

“Like that’s any better.”

Dilys laughs some more, and then, then her eyes widen like she suddenly realised something, she says, “Oh. D’you want some more tea?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Okay.”

She puts the kettle back under the tap and fills it up a little more before she actually puts it on. Faris hands her the mug he’d been holding on to, not sure what else to do in that moment.

“I used one of the Yorkshire teabags earlier, just so you know.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Dilys leans back against the other side of the L-shape counter. She’s got goosebumps forming on her bare skin to match Faris’, on her upper arms and in the vee of skin formed by the lacy fabric triangles of her bra where her cleavage would be. Seeing that she’s cold somehow runs more of a shiver up Faris’ back than being cold himself does. Then Faris feels bad for looking at her chest again, so he turns his head down to look at her feet instead. She’s wearing fluffy black slippers, which is… ridiculous.

Maybe he should say something else. “And I had some of your digestives. I’m sorry for that, too.”

“No, you,” Dilys starts. “Don’t. Really, don’t be, you’re the guest.” And then, with the same surprised tone in her voice, she says, “Oh. Oh, oh, oh, wait a second.”

Before Faris can raise his head to see her face, she’s already gone spurting out of the kitchen, but he can still vaguely hear her rummaging around. For lack of anything else to do, he focusses his attention onto the kettle. It’s a slow-burning one, old and already a little rusty in parts, so of course it still hasn’t boiled by the time Dilys comes back in cradling a pair of trackie bottoms.

“Here you go,” she says.

Her smile is so stupidly bright Faris doesn’t even hesitate to take the trackies and step into them.

“They’re my boyfriend’s, but they’re pretty big on him so they’ll probably fit you.”

Faris doesn’t have time to contemplate that, because next thing, the kettle goes off and startles them both. Dilys turns it off and pours their mugs.

“D’you take milk or sugar in your tea?”

“Black,” Faris says back. “And I think you’re supposed to put the milk in first.”

Dilys sticks her tongue out at him. The trackies do fit, though, and they’re even a bit loose so Faris imagines they’re _very_ loose on Joe. They’ve got pockets, too, so Faris slots his hands into them to have something to do while he watches Dilys set all five mugs and the box of digestives onto a tray.

“You ready to go?”

“I don’t know,” Faris says, before he can swallow down that little inkling of anxiety he’s still got in his gut. But he catches himself and says, “I mean, the tea still has to steep, doesn’t it?”

Dilys laughs at him and picks up one mug to warm her hands.

“Any particular reason you don’t want to go back to the bedroom?” she asks, and she smirks that smirk Faris _hates_. “You don’t have to say if you don’t want to.”

Faris says back, “Berk,” almost automatically. “I don’t know, it’s just… kind of weird.”

“Not good with one night stands?”

“Well, you know, I’ve only ever had sex with Tom my whole life.” Faris shrugs. “Mainly it’s I’ve got no idea how to be _good_ with one night stands.”

“You’re a fresher at university and you’ve only had sex with one person in your life.” Dilys snorts out a short laugh, and Faris really wishes she would… not. “That’s _impressive_.”

“You know your boyfriend’s a first year too, right?”

“Doesn’t mean he’s not getting sex just because he’s my boyfriend.”

Dilys blows away the steam that’s rising out of her mug. Faris isn’t sure if he should look at that or her skinny fingers clasped around the mug or the gentle curve of her belly, or if he maybe shouldn’t be looking at all.

“We’re, you know… Open relationship.”

Faris isn’t sure if he should be swallowing down his anxiety over that, either, but he does anyway. “You are?”

“Yeah, we are.” Dilys actually sips her tea and says, “Come on, let’s go.”

The other guys are already up when they walk back into the bedroom. Tom and Josh are still in their corner, although Tom’s put on pants and a shirt that’s definitely not his own, and they seem to have been wrapped up in some conversation until just now. Joe’s sat in the other corner in an unnecessarily large t-shirt. It’s somewhat reassuring, Faris supposes, the opposite of picturing the audience naked to be less nervous, except Josh’s still very much indecent. He’s got a birthmark on his left tit, right by the nipple. Faris isn’t sure if it’s okay for him to look.

Faris says, “Hey.”

It breaks the silence, but it’s the bitter type of silence that comes up when the person you were just talking about walks into the room. Faris tells himself he’s just being paranoid, though. He waits for Dilys to climb onto the bed before he follows and places the tray on the bedspread in front of him, limbs folded as close to his body as he possibly can. Dilys reaches for her cup of tea again, so he does, too, at least for something to hold onto, and the others do the same.

“Yours is the one in the purple cup, Josh.”

“Cheers,” Josh says back.

Faris isn’t sure if he look in Josh’s direction at all when he speaks, either. At the very least having Josh’s naked tits just _there_ makes his stomach churn even more at the thought of bringing up last night. So Faris sips his tea and stares away into nothing.

“Faris? Digestive?”

“No, cheers, I’m good.”

They continue to sit in silence, and for the rest of them it’s probably the peaceful type of silence when you’re hungover and having breakfast, broken up by the sound of chewing. For Faris it only fills him up further with dread and seasickness. Finally, the tea’s gone from his cup. Faris casts a glance across the mattress, watches the rest of them still stare into their mugs and chew their digestives with bleary eyes.

He says, “So,” and he waits for the others to turn their heads and face him. “This whole band thing. Is that still on?”

“I don’t see why it wouldn’t be,” Josh says.

“I’m just saying. ‘cause originally we said we wanted to rehearse again next week, but that was before…” Faris staggers, both in his struggle to find a suitable word and in that latent delusion that maybe, as long as he doesn’t say it out loud, it didn’t really happen.

“Before we all had sex?” Joe asks.

Faris hates Joe.

“Before we had a fucking _fiveway_. So if we all want to pretend this didn’t happen and never look each other in the face again, I get that.” He exhales a deep breath that he wasn’t holding in the first place, just lets out air until his ribcage feels deflated. Then…

“Hey.”

Dilys’ hand lays itself onto his arm, the soft below the crease of his elbow. Faris instinctively locks up.

“Hey, it’s okay.”

Faris does another big heavy breath. Dilys’ hand is soft and light and rosey and there’s flakes of red varnish on her nails. In contrast, his arm is the unhealthy olive shade it turns in autumn and full of cramping muscles that he can’t relax.

“Don’t do that.”

Faris pulls his arm in toward himself, and Dilys doesn’t. Well, she pulls her hand away, that is. He can tell he’s being stared at, they’re all looking at him, but he doesn’t dare to raise his gaze.

“Sorry,” Dilys says.

“Don’t be.” Faris shudders, from the actual cold for once, and rubs his upper arms where the goosebumps are flaring up again. “This is weird.”

“Do you want your shirt?” Dilys asks.

It’s not that Faris doesn’t _appreciate_ how she’s trying to be helpful, but she’s really not doing much to make this all better.

“I think. Yeah.” Still doing enough to make Faris feel bad for not accepting the offer, though.

He doesn’t raise his eyes from his trackie-bottoms-covered knees when he feels Dilys shift across the mattress, or when she presents him with his shirt from last night. There’s still the cigs-and-booze smell of pub clinging to the fabric when Faris pulls it over his head, and his stomach cramps up again.

“Thanks.”

Still, a shiver runs through his torso at the stench that Faris can’t quite hide.

“Faz? Do you need a fag?”

That’s Tom’s voice asking, so Faris feels he can’t truly be bothered by the nickname. He’s craving one, too, so he makes some vague noise of agreement. Tom hands over his box of cigarettes.

“Sorry for this,” Faris says. He maybe _should_ apologise because he’s the only reason this situation is so awkward in the first place, and he lights up and takes a drag. “Sorry I’m making this weird.”

“No, really,” Josh says. “It’s okay.”

Faris can feel him shift on the mattress, too, right towards his position. The thought of Josh pressing his naked bare body against him in an attempt to comfort him is something Faris absolutely cannot deal with right now.

“Don’t touch me.”

Faris sucks his cigarette, and Josh stops.

“Sorry, but it’s… You know, it’s weird. Since you’re still all naked and that.”

“Sorry.”

From the corner of his eye, Faris can see how Josh stops and returns himself into a normal sitting position. They’re almost mirroring each other, both hunched over with their elbows propped on their thighs in the same manner, except Josh’s still got his soft parts exposed. Faris feels like he shouldn’t be looking _again_.

“I mean it, though. It’s okay.” Josh folds himself into a tight fleshy cube, the sort of position that would have him be considered _tasteful nude_. “It’s okay if it’s weird for you, too. But this whole sex thing is… okay.”

Finally, there’s some resonance of “Yeah, it is,” around the mattress. Faris doesn’t truly _know_ if it is, but he does bring himself to raise his head.

“Hey,” Dilys’ voice says.

Faris knows she’s smiling even without looking directly at her.

“D’you think I can have one of your fags?” Josh asks.

“Yeah, sure.”

Faris hands the box of cigs over. He actually looks at Josh, his deflated, crusty hair and smudgy eyeliner and the chipped polish on his fingernails, and there’s a dreary hurt in his eyes that’s not just from the hangover. Maybe that makes it a bit better, or maybe it makes it that much worse.

“Thanks.” Josh blows a big puff of smoke up toward the ceiling. “Seriously.”

He takes another drag. Faris has the feeling that there should be more he has to say, that he shouldn’t be done speaking yet. Instead of saying anything, he just watches Josh some more.

“About the sex,” Josh finally says, his voice hollow but earnest. “We can do that again after our next rehearsal if you like. Or if you never want to do it again we can never do it again, too. I think?”

There’s that resounding of _yeah_ s again, and once again, Faris doesn’t know if it’s okay.

Still, he says, “Okay.”

The one thing he does know is, there’s still a hungover fatigue hanging over his head, and his stomach is growling.

So he says, “I want some real breakfast.”

So, that’s pretty much what they do.

Josh gets dressed so he can fry up sausage and eggs while Dilys boils another kettle of tea, and Joe drags the bean bag from the living room to the dining table so all five of them can sit. They eat in silence for about two minutes, before Dilys inevitably brings up last night’s rehearsal and some record she’s got that _their sound_ really reminds her of. Maybe Faris feels a bit too warm and at peace just from hearing her say _our sound_. Then she inevitably starts arguing with Tom about which Suicide album is the superior one, and Faris has to try not to laugh and sputter bits of egg across the table.

Eventually, they’re done eating, and Joe and Dilys both have to start getting ready for work. When Josh asks if he can go with either of them because he doesn’t want to be home alone, Faris doesn’t even hesitate before he offers to come along.


End file.
